A jug of wine, a loaf of bread  and thou
by twiceonsunday
Summary: Shami's sister Tamina was destined to protect the Dagger of Time. Destiny has other plans. A shamelessly maudlin and hopelessly trite reworking of the original plot with an OC that is nonetheless obscenely emotionally gratifying  at least to write.
1. Chapter 1

**Obligatory author's note**: This is a _fan_ fiction, and all that that entails by way of intellectual property rights, etc.

Shami's sister Tamina believed in destiny; a greater purpose set forth for her by the gods. For the priestess-princess of Alamut, it was easy to believe in destiny – one had been provided for her since birth. Tamina knew with a certainty bordering on smugness that her fate was to protect the Dagger of Time, to safeguard time itself. Tamina's fate was the fate of the world. And the moment of her destiny was upon her.

The Persian believed that we make our own destiny. Shami had heard him tell her sister as much as he escorted her in to meet his father, the king. Bright eyed and buoyed by his recent military victory, Shami could see why. Dastan clearly had no problem taking what he wanted, even from the gods.

As for herself, Shami did not believe in destiny at all. The second daughter in a monarchy that required only the one, and weakened by a childhood bout of scarlet fever, Shami had carved out a life for herself on a scale too small for words like "destiny" to apply. Superfluous to the running of Alamut's theocracy, Shami instead dedicated herself to running the royal household. She oversaw the kitchens and laundry, settled petty disputes among the servants, and ensured that diplomatic protocol was followed when receiving foreign guests. There was no higher purpose to her life, Shami thought, just an endless succession of the mundane to be handled with whatever grace and skill she could muster.

And today, Shami's skills were being put to the test. However they had got there, the three Persian princes – Tus, Garsiv, and Dastan - still expected to sleep and dine as royal guests, and Shami's pride would not allow her to see them ill served. And so she sat in a corner, a piece of brocade embroidery in her lap as a shield against the great and good, and through quiet conferences with stewards and sculleries, ensured that everyone had enough to eat and drink as they decided the fate of her palace, her city, and the world.

Shami looked up at her sister, standing defiantly in front of the Persian king. Tamina's eyes shone with the brilliance of inner resolve, spitting insults as the king's youngest son introduced her. Tamina was to be married to Tus, the eldest of the three Persian princes, but Shami thought that Dastan seemed a better match for her feisty sister. They were alike in a way that Shami could not quite describe – a free flowing ease in themselves and their surroundings, perhaps. Perhaps it was the certain knowledge that, however arrived at, each of them was destined for greatness. Both were undoubtedly handsome. Tamina tall and strong, yet somehow also feminine, a rounded face framed by flowing black hair. Dastan's well-muscled chest betrayed a body as deadly as the swords that adorned his back. Shaggy hair and a casualness of countenance hinted at a devil-may-care vitality. Yes, they were well matched, and if it were up to Shami, they would wed. But it was not.

Tamina, she knew, had no intention of marrying anyone. And normally, she would have declared so outright. But behind Tamina's haughty pride was, today, an uncertainty that Shami had never seen before. Only a sister would even notice the momentary flashes of doubt. Tamina wasn't sure what to do. Shami had seen Dastan return with the knife, and she knew that Tamina had, too. The Dagger of Time, Tamina's sacred trust, in the hands of infidels. When Shami had been ill as a child, Tamina would visit her in bed, showing her with reverence the object she, on behalf of Alamut and the world, was sworn to protect. In her less charitable moments, Shami thought her sister motivated more by smug pride than sisterly affection. But she had not been jealous then, and was certainly not jealous now. Shami could not imagine how Tamina planned to retrieve the dagger without alerting the Persians to its true power or how she would protect Alamut and its citizens from the harsher consequences of conquest. She thanked the gods that it was not her up there, confronting the might of Persia, for if it were, she had no doubt that Alamut would fall. Tamina would know what to do, though. She always did.

The voice of the king pulled Shami from her reverie. Tus had enough wives. Tamina was not to be his; his prize was in the victory itself. "But what of the hero of the hour, what of Dastan?" he asked, "His actions won the day, does he not also deserve a prize? I had heard there were two princesses in Alamut. Come, where is your sister?"

Damn. Damn damn damn. Tamina's eyes were boring down on her "please Shami" she could practically here her say "please get this right". Shami knew her sister had little faith in her, and gods knew Shami would have stayed where she was if she could, but she could not. And so she rose to meet the king. Or tried to. Damn again. Of all the times for her strength to fail, curse her feeble body. Alamut would fall because she couldn't get out of a chair. Across the room, Alamutian servers quietly put down their trays and gathered around her. Two young men on either side of her took a hand each and gently lifted her to her feet. She leaned heavily into their strength and slowly moved forward. A wave of gratitude washed over Shami as the servants surrounded her, concealing her weakness in the guise of an honor guard, escorting their mistress to the center of the knot of Persian soldiers, until she stood in front of the king, her sister, and the Persian princes.

Shami prayed that their ruse would work, at least until she regained control of her legs (these bouts of debilitating pain never lasted long). She had a feeling that the Persians, might of the world, had little patience for physical failing. She drew herself upward with all of the majesty she could muster, avoiding the anxious glare of her sister (hardly helpful, at a time like this) and met the eyes of the king. And was surprised by what she saw in them. His gaze was sharp and hard, as one might expect from the leader of the world's largest empire, adept at taking the measure of enemies and allies alike, but Shami also saw kindness there, and understanding. She found that she hoped he would think well of her, knowing he would not. "My sister, the princess Shamarak" Tamina announced tenderly, but with a note of skepticism in her voice. "She keeps my house".

"So we have you to thank for this delightful banquet?"

"Majesty", Shami acknowledged, with a nod of the head.

"A job well done, my girl, and a harder job than many here will know."

Shami blushed at the praise. She had never though of her little activities as being of any importance at all, let alone a difficult job to be acknowledged by the ruler of the known world. The king moved his glance from her face down along her arms to her white-knuckled grip on the arms of her retinue, and then back to her face, and Shami knew the game was up. "Perhaps you had better sit down, my dear". Panic consumed her, and she looked around wildly at her sister, who reassured her "Sit Shami. It was inevitable, I will take care of it". So Shami sat, grateful that the servants remained at her side. The king was seated, too, and now on the same level, he reached out and touched her arm. "Fear not child, there is more than one kind of strength in this world" (but I don't have any, Shami thought). "But where were we?" the king asked, changing the flow of conversation. "Ah yes, Dastan. Yes. Yes." The king's piercing stare penetrated Shami's composure once more. "Yes. Dastan should gain a wife from this adventure."

"Father!" Dastan shouted. Shami, startled, looked up at him, and in the disgust she read on his face, she realized the king's intention. He meant for Dastan to marry HER. Surely not. "Father, you can't be serious", and although Dastan's utterance echoed her own thoughts, she could not help but be hurt by it. She knew she was plain, and he could be none too thrilled at a wife whose legs occasionally gave way, but still. Was she really that bad? Brow furrowed, she leaned in to the king. "You are mistaken sir, surely you meant for Dastan to marry my sister, to marry Tamina." A stroke of brilliance, Shami thought. If Tamina could get close to Dastan, she could get close enough to reclaim the dagger, and this whole nightmare would be over. The king's voice brought her down to earth once more. "No" he said firmly. The king leaned in, and spoke softly, so that only Shami could hear. "Look at the loyalty you command," he said, gesturing to the servants still huddled around her protectively, "If I knew nothing else, that would be enough. But I can see it in your eyes, young lady. You are the one. The matter is settled. Let us speak of it no more."

With that the king seemed to lose interest, and turned his attention from her. Shami puzzled at how a man so seemingly wise could be so wrong. Loyalty? She looked at the faces of the servers, stewards, and sculleries gathered around her, at the concern in their faces, and knew it was concern that she let them down, and nothing more. Wasn't it?

And then Tamina was there. "Its all right, Shami, its going to be all right"

Shami realized that she was crying. "I'm sorry Tamina. I tried. I tried to help."

"I know, love. You did well. It's ok. This is not your destiny, it is mine. No one expects you to do more than you can. It's a good party, right? I will take care of the real work". Shami knew that Tamina was trying to reassure her, but it hurt, too. Was she so feeble, were expectations so low? Still she was relieved that Tamina was once again in charge.

"What are we going to do now?"

"I must get the dagger to the sanctuary. I'm going to get Dastan alone, and get it from him. I need you to stay here, and keep the party going. Keep everyone occupied so I am not missed. You're a good host, Shami, just keep them happy for as long as you can. Can you stand up yet?" Shami nodded, yes. The episode had passed. She stood. "Ok, then, here we go", and Tamina went off to alert her advisors to the plan.

As she left, Dastan approached, and placed a hand on Shami's back. Gods, but the man was beautiful up close. Shami could feel his strength and his warmth as she looked up at his face. He returned the glance, not unkindly. "Look, princess, I'm sorry if I was rude, but I'm not the marrying kind." (It's not you, it's me. Shami had heard of this excuse, and its favor with the opposite sex, from the palace maids). "Father will forget soon enough, if you could just keep out of sight?" And with a wink, he looked at her cajolingly. Shami found that she was irked by the presumption that she could be so easily brushed aside, and had to remind herself that she didn't want this marriage, either. She struggled to think of a witty reply. Tamina would have had a dozen ready by now.

Dastan obviously took her silence as a refusal to play along and continued "look, I'm sure I seem like a great catch, but…" Shami couldn't suppress a snort. His arrogance spurred her into action. Get him close to Tamina, she thought. That was the plan.

"No doubt, prince. There is no need for politeness. I am well aware that I am a less than ideal catch. But my sister, Tamina, she is very beautiful. And smart, and brave. Strong. Perhaps your opposition to the institution of marriage would lessen somewhat if she were the object? You needn't stay here to comfort me, go, and speak with her. If your father is as forgetful as you say, he could be persuaded that Tamina was to be your bride to begin with."

Dastan looked up at Tamina, across the room, and then back down at Shami. He didn't move. Shami couldn't decipher the look in his deep blue eyes. And why was his arm still around her, pressing into her back? Shami was acutely aware of his warm, muscled presence. "Princess, you misunderstand, I am rarely accused of politeness. I…"

And then, mid sentence, all hell broke loose. The king stood up, smoke rising from his garments, and collapsed. Treason, someone shouted. Persian soldiers held the princes back from attending their stricken father, lest they, too, succumb to the unknown poison. Then Garsiv, the middle brother, pointed towards Dastan, and swore with rage. "It was Dastan! Dastan gave the king the cloak! Murderer. Seize him!" Shami was unsure what he was talking about - she had not been paying attention, as always. The chaos around her was frightening, and she winced and looked for the reassuring presence of her sister. "Tamina? Tamina!" she cried. "Shami!" she heard, and looked across the room. Tamina was being held by Persian guards, suspected, perhaps, of involvement in the king's death. "Go, Shami! Stay with Dastan! Stay with IT! I will catch up when I can. Go!" Shami watched as Tamina wrested her way out of the guards' grasp, and with Alamutian help, fled through the far door.

Dastan was still near to her, his face distorted by rage and grief. He was preparing to stand and fight. His friend - she had seen them together earlier - raced to his aid and urged Dastan to flee, even as a sword pierced his side. It was now or never. Shami had no choice. "Dastan, come with me! Through here," she urged. The Alamutian servants cleared the way as Shami led the prince through a door concealed by a wall hanging. It was a secret stair, for the use of the kitchen staff. Shami knew it well, and soon the two emerged in the scullery, and Shami raced for the back door. Her legs couldn't take much more, she knew, as she prayed for them to hold out, at least until they reached the gates of the city. Persian warriors quickly caught on to their movements, and she heard Garsiv scream with rage behind her. "Stop them!" Shami panicked. She had no plan. She had gotten them out of the room - that was easy. She knew the palace like the back of her hand. But how could she get them out of the city? She was on unfamiliar ground. And then Dastan had wrapped his arm around her and launched them both onto one of the warhorses the Persians had stabled in the yard. Before she knew what had happened, they were racing through the streets of the city, and out the gates. With a physical prowess Shami had not known possible, Dastan lifted himself from the horse, leapt to the gate mechanism, and cut through the rope break with one swing of the sword and launched himself back into the saddle. The gate crashed home behind them, and they were free. Garsiv cursed and foamed, but could not follow.

Only after an hour of hard riding did Dastan stop the horse by a stream. Shami slid off and crumpled to the ground in an exhausted heap. It was more than her frail form could take. It was all wrong. Tamina. Tamina should be here, with the dagger, with this man. Not her. Not her. What could she do? How could she get the dagger? And take it to the sanctuary. Alone? She was exhausted after an hour's ride. Even one of these tasks was undoubtedly impossible. She prayed that Tamina could find them, and quickly. This was Tamina's destiny. Shami was lost in it.

* * *

><p>Dastan dropped from the horse, took a desperately needed drink from the stream, and looked down at the crumpled figure of the Alamutian princess – Shamarak? – as she slid down from the back of the warhorse. As the panic of the chase subsided, his mind raced back through the events that had led him here. At the age of ten he had gone from street rat to prince in an instant, when the king had taken him from the marketplace and given him a home, a family, and a life. Just as quickly he found himself here, accused of murdering the very man who had raised him as a prince of Persia. A former gutter punk, trained as a Persian warrior – hailed this morning as the Lion of Persia, the might of an empire - was on the run with the most fragile looking girl he had ever seen.<p>

It had all been going so well. Tus was on the warpath, Garsiv at his right hand, in charge of the cavalry, and Dastan affably along for the ride, in charge of his small band of former street boys, resourceful and loyal men, all, and, Dastan thought, much underrated by his more traditionally-minded brothers. They had suppressed a minor rebellion on the edges of the empire, and were returning home when their uncle, Nizam, had called an emergency council. The holy city of Alamut, he claimed, was aiding the enemy, selling weapons forged behind their sacred walls. Garsiv was chomping at the bit for a fight, as always. Tus less so, but swayed by trusted council. Dastan was unsure. The king had not sanctioned such an action, and on such slender evidence, why risk the loss of Persian lives? He loved his brothers, though, and accepted their decision to advance on Alamut.

Never one to follow orders, Dastan began his own advance early. In the night, his rag-tag team had breached the walls of Alamut with stealth and cunning. Dastan told himself it was to save lives – Garsiv's head-on attack was folly – but his best friend, Bis, suspected that Dastan was motivated by an overriding need for adventure. Royal life caged something in Dastan that occasionally needed to be let out. He was probably right - It was joy that Dastan felt, and freedom, as he raced across the rooftops of Alamut, taking on its guards in single combat, until the side gate was opened, and a signal sent out to Tus.

The rest of the battle had been a walk in the park. Only the one Alamutian – on horseback and carrying a dagger of obvious value - had given him any trouble. Dastan wondered why the man had been so eager to protect the knife? He had tucked it into his belt to ponder later, and then forgot about it. After the battle Tus had tried to claim it as a spoil of war, but Nizam had persuaded him to let Dastan keep it. Dastan couldn't say why, but he was so intrigued by the blade he had kept it by his side ever since. He had it when the brothers confronted Alamut's ruler, Tamina, princess and priestess both. Dastan couldn't be sure, but he thought her demeanor had changed when she spied it on him. From defiance to, if not acceptance, at least acquiescence. Tamina was as beautiful as he had heard. Tus wanted to marry her, and as far as Dastan was concerned, he could have her. She was gorgeous, and feisty, yes, but also haughty and aloof. He had done his duty and introduced her to his father, as Tus requested, and hoped that would be the end of it.

It had not been, as he remembered with a groan. The king had called him forward, and he had gone to his father, with pride. Bashful yet overjoyed to be called the Lion of Persia by the man whose respect and love he valued most, Dastan was pleased at the prospect of a gift for his efforts. But then the king had called forth Alamut's younger princess. Had he even known there was one? He hadn't heard her mentioned before, not in talks with other rulers, in their intelligence reports on Alamut – even from the Alamutians here. Only Tamina had been at the surrender. But indeed, a woman had come forward to meet the king. She looked like a small, pale replica of her sister. Not unattractive, but no great beauty, her features lacked the definition and resolve of her sister's. Her eyes, though, were a different story. Darkest brown and deep as a well of pure night, he could not read the look they held at all. Her mind was a private country, to which no one present was granted access. Dastan had little time for frailty, and even less for women, but he couldn't help wanting to know what this strange creature was thinking behind those enigmatic eyes. Shamarak, her sister had called her. There was a tension mounting in the air, as if all of Alamut was holding its breath. The men and women who had failed to mention the existence of this second princess now seemed afraid of (or, Dastan suddenly realized, for) her now.

It mattered little to Dastan, and he had turned to speak with Bis when he heard the king announce that he was to be married. He whipped around to face the news head on. "Father, you can't be serious!" Gods, he had been expecting a new sword, not a bride! Dastan enjoyed life as it was, carefree, full of the camaraderie of brotherhood, the thrill of the chase, and the glory of battle. He had bedded women, to be sure, but to be bonded to one forever…

The princess, she was seated now – why was she seated in the presence of the king? What had he missed – drew her gaze up sharply at his outburst. Her gaze furrowed in pain, fear, and confusion, and Dastan immediately regretted not paying closer attention. What had she said? What had his father said to her? The situation was rapidly escaping him, and for some reason, he now felt guilty. What was her name again, Shamarak? He couldn't stand the look on her face, that he had left her so bewildered and afraid, and he had no idea why. She smiled at him reassuringly (oh, gods, that was worse!) and addressed the king. "You are mistaken sir, surely you meant for Dastan to marry my sister, to marry Tamina." It just kept getting worse, now the poor girl thought it was her he objected to in particular, and was trying to trade up for him. The frustration was almost too much. He had to talk sense into his father.

The two princesses were speaking frantically to each other to one side, and Dastan took the opportunity to get near to the king. "Father, I…"

"Dastan, at last, a moment to speak. Your actions, I hear, saved many lives."

"Thank you father."

"But, had you listened to your instincts, and prevented the invasion from happening at all, no lives would have been lost at all, and this holy city not defiled."

Dastan looked down in shame. "I did my best father, Tus…"

"Tus must act as he must. As the eldest he carries the burden of future rule. But you, Dastan, the boy I saw in the market that day did more than try. Your actions today were great, and to the glory of Persia. The boy I met was more than great; the boy I met was also good. Take the princesses of Alamut. Look at Tamina, in her defiance. The woman is great, there is no doubt. But her sister, I see in her eyes what I saw in yours, those many years ago. It is a goodness that cannot be learned. It is or is not. Perhaps marriage to her will remind you of your own potential to be better than you are."

"Father, please, I can be that man, but I have no wish to marry!"

"Enough, Dastan, I am tired. I have no wish to argue with you now, on this of all days."

Shaking himself out of his father's somber words, Dastan, too, came back to the day's celebrations. He had a gift for his father – Tus had arranged it. Dastan could never get the hang of such formalities. His own instinct, in the glow of victory, was to share the moment with his men. Tus had come to the rescue, though, with a prayer robe, and he gave it to his father now. His obligations satisfied, Dastan sought out the younger princess of Alamut. If his father would not listen to sense, he would take a different tact.

He found her alone in a corner, standing once more. Up close, he could see why his father had offered her a seat. Her strength seemed to fail her, her legs practically shaking as they attempted to support her. Best he could tell, she was holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Before he knew what he was doing, he wrapped an arm around her, gently taking on as much of her weight as he could without her noticing – he had no wish to shame her, certainly not before he could get her on his side. Her hair was close to his face, and it smelled of vanilla and jasmine. She was so delicate, leaning on his arm, that looking down he could not help but feel protective of her. She looked up into his face, and for a moment he was lost. None of this made sense. Best to stick to the plan.

"Look, princess, I'm sorry if I was rude, but I'm not the marrying kind. Father will forget soon enough, if you could just keep out of sight?" He looked at her encouragingly and gave her a wink to let her know he had no more wish to entrap her than she undoubtedly had to be married to the cause of her people's destruction. The princess made no reply, and he worried that he had read the situation wrong. Maybe she did want him, but he needed to get out of this somehow. Maybe he needed to be more forthright.

"Look, I'm sure I seem like a great catch, but…"

She interrupted before he could finish. "No doubt, prince. There is no need for politeness. I am well aware that I am a less than ideal catch. But my sister, Tamina, she is very beautiful. And smart, and brave. Strong. Perhaps your opposition to the institution of marriage would lessen somewhat if she were the object? You needn't stay here to comfort me, go, and speak with her. If your father is as forgetful as you say, he could be persuaded that Tamina was to be your bride to begin with."

Dastan looked up at Tamina, across the room, and then back down at her sister. What was she talking about? Gods, not this again. He didn't want Tamina. He didn't want anyone. Why did the girl in his arms – he was suddenly aware of how closely he was holding her – keep assuming he wanted to be rid of her for another, as though apologizing for her very presence? He looked down into her eyes. She must be able to tell how intriguing he found them. He didn't want to marry her, but something in him ached at the idea that she thought that was her fault. "Princess, you misunderstand, I am rarely accused of politeness. I…"

And then, mid sentence, all hell broke loose. His father was struggling to rise, smoke emanating from the cloak that Dastan had just given him. He had died there, before Dastan's eyes as he struggled to reach his father. Garsiv had looked at him then, Dastan thought in shared grief, but it was a look of anger. In shock, Dastan couldn't process what happened next. As though from the far end of a looking glass, he saw his brother point, accuse him of the unthinkable. Soldiers rushed him, and Bis, dear Bis, came to his defense. And died for his actions. The princess Shamarak grabbed his hand, and led him through the bowels of the palace, and they had emerged outside.

She looked at him in panic, and it snapped him from his cocoon of grief with a quick rush of adrenaline. He grabbed a Persian warhorse and somehow – he couldn't remember afterward – got them out of the city. He had only stopped when he knew the horse could take no more.

And here he was, a fatherless orphan once more. He could never kill his father. His only father. Who believed he could be more than he was. No one would believe him now, he knew. He needed someone to believe him. He knelt down and lifted the princess to a sitting position. He held her head in his hands, "I did not kill my father" he insisted. Looking at her and past her at the same time, as though to her and the world at once, "I did not kill my father". He withdrew his hands and ran them through his hair as he thought. "It was Tus. Tus gave me the cloak, I did not kill my father!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **This is a _fan _fiction, and all that that entails regarding intellectual property rights, etc. I am perfectly aware that shams is the Arabic – and not the Persian – word for sun, and that it is masculine at that. I don't care.

"I did not kill my father" Dastan repeated over and over again.

He was so agitated; Shami's heart broke for him. Her own panic took a back seat. She had to calm him down and get them moving again, or Garsiv and his Persian war party would catch up, and both of them would die.

"I know. Shhh. I Know. I believe you, Dastan, please. Shhhh." Thank the gods, he came back to her. The distant look left him, and he looked at her, really looked, and focused. And she had an idea. "You need proof. Tamina can help you. Tamina is good at things like that. I can take you to her. But we need to go. Now!" she said, looking back over her shoulder as the cloud of dust on the horizon signaled arrival of the Persian pursuit.

Dastan looked too, and quickly hoisted her onto the horse's back. He joined her in the saddle and led the animal out into the midst of the water. They walked downstream for some way - to obscure their tracks Shami guessed. When they emerged onto dry land, Dastan turned and asked if she could walk.

"The horse is tired, we need to save his strength," he said. Shami's stomach sank.

Unable even to speak, she nodded her head and slid to the ground. Dastan swung down with an agile leap, and nodded back. Grateful for his silence, Shami concentrated on walking. The pain that night would be great, she knew, and she wasn't sure how long she could keep up, but she thought of the Persians behind her, the dagger so near to her, and her sister waiting ahead at the sanctuary, and she knew that she had no choice. Shami walked on. For hours.

Just as she began to falter, Dastan broke the silence. "Princess Shamarak…"

"Shami"

"What?"

"Please, call me Shami. No one calls me princess, except to mock. And Shamarak is too grand a name for everyday. I am called Shami"

"Whatever you say, sunshine."

The pain was unbearable, and Shami stumbled again.

"So, _Shami_" he began again, carefully enunciating every letter in her name. The emphasis irritated Shami. Couldn't he see that she was struggling? "So, _Shami_, why didn't anyone ever mention that Alamut has a second princess? Your sister ashamed of the family cripple?"

How dare he? How dare he! "No! My sister loves me. She loves me. I don't know why you haven't herd of me. Maybe you don't pay attention. Tamina isn't just Alamut's ruler; she's our priestess, too. Did you know that? She's very important. Of course they don't talk about me when she meets with foreign rulers. They have important things to discuss. Countries to run! Tamina is smart – they come to her for advice, not to talk about her sister. Just because they don't need me for that doesn't mean that I'm hidden. I may be small and unimportant, but I do what needs to be done. The palace runs, so Tamina doesn't have to think about it. People come to me so they don't have to bother her. Tamina never complains - she should have someone to share her burden, but she never complains that all she has is me."

"Whoa there, sunshine. Calm down."

Shami was too mad to listen "And I am not a cripple. I had scarlet fever when I was five. My legs are fine, they just aren't strong. At least I don't walk like you, all stomping, and proud. The walk of a Persian prince, as if the whole world should be awed by the greatness of your very birth I-"

Dastan whipped around, and Shami stopped dead in her tracks. For the first time, she was afraid of him. "I was not born in a palace, like you. I was born on the streets, and lived as an orphan. One day the king… I don't know, he took me up; he gave me a family, a home. What you see, _princess_, is the walk of a man who has just lost everything." As he spoke, the fierceness in his sparkling blue eyes transformed itself into muted sadness. Without speaking, Dastan turned, and kept walking.

Shami was ashamed. The pain in her legs had made her irritable, and she had lashed out at Dastan. Undeservedly so, it turned out. Who was she to judge his life from a single step? Embarrassment kept Shami silent for the rest of the day, until the pain overwhelmed her, and she could walk no more. It was the longest she had ever been on her feet. She had not known she was capable of so much, but whatever strength had allowed her to carry on was gone now, and she fell to her knees. Dastan looked back, and stopped. Apparently he had forgiven her, and in a gentler tone than she thought possible from her unlikely Persian companion, he told her they would make camp and rest here for the night.

* * *

><p>They had been walking for some time when Dastan realized that the princess was struggling to keep up. A quick glance backward, and he realized it was more than feminine fatigue. She was in obvious pain, but he couldn't spare the horse, not now, and they had to keep going. Maybe talking would take her mind off things.<p>

"Princess Shamarak" he began.

"Shami" she had replied - her name was Shami. It suited. She faltered again. Garsiv was an excellent tracker, and Dastan knew they could ill afford to stop and rest. If the girl stopped now, she would get them both killed. He had to distract her, get her talking. Anger, he thought. Make her angry, and she'll forget the pain.

"So, _Shami_, why didn't anyone ever mention that Alamut has a second princess? Your sister ashamed of the family cripple?" He really did want to know, although perhaps in better circumstances, he would have phrased things differently. He wasn't prepared for the torrent of fury she unleashed. And then she was cheer-leading for her sister again. What _was_ that about? Tamina is the best and the greatest. Tamina does this, Tamina doses that. And for every one of Tamina's merits, a matching inadequacy from Shami. Dastan furrowed his brow, but did not turn back. He couldn't understand her at all. The woman was maddening.

And then she crossed a line, accused him of princely arrogance. He turned around then, in anger. If she wanted to share her life story, he could share his. How dare she presume? It came out in a rush of defiance and pain, followed by grief, as the full impact of his loss hit him once more. His father, the king, was dead. And the world believed him to blame. It was too much to bear. He turned and carried on walking. What else could he do? The anger drained with every step, and by evening he felt remorse for snapping at her. He had provoked her, after all. Wait - he had provoked her because she was struggling. He had forgotten in his anger. He hadn't looked back for ages. Was she all right? He turned in time to see her fall to her knees. It was dark in any case, and he felt guilty for neglecting the girl. It was not her fault that she had been next to him when the king was killed, had been dragged into all of this. But why had she helped him escape at all? The question nagged at Dastan, but would have to wait until after they made camp.

Dastan attended to the horse's needs first, as any good soldier would, under whatever circumstance. When he finished removing his equipment, rubbing down the mare with straw, and putting out what meager feed he could find, Dastan found that Shami had made a fire, and brewed some tea for the two of them from a small pouch of herbs produced from some hidden corner of her tunic. He accepted her peace offering, and sat down next to her. Settled in for the night, he could indulge in his curiosity.

She was so close, and warm. His hand brushed hers, and its softness caught his breath. He looked once again into her inscrutable eyes, the impenetrable gateway to an interior life he did not understand, but found that he wished to. "Why did you help me escape, Shami?"

"It was Tamina," she began. Gods, here we go again. Tamina Tamina Tamina. He put a hand to her lips. Enough.

"I've heard enough about Tamina for one day, sunshine. I want to hear about you. You helped me. Why?" Her face was close to his, now, and he wondered how he could ever have thought her anything less than a beauty.

"I" Shami began, and then, distracted, looked from his eyes to his belt. His eyes followed hers. The dagger? He had forgotten about it in the upheaval surrounding the king's assassination. Lost in thought, and in her eyes, he almost missed Shami's hand, darting out to take the dagger from him, but he caught her wrist in time. She struggled to free herself, and her strength surprised Dastan. She broke free, but stumbled when she tried to scramble away, obviously still exhausted from the day's walk. He had the dagger still, but she reached for a sword. It was child's play to take it from her, and he raised the dagger to strike. As he did, he pressed his thumb on the end of the hilt, and time stopped. And then rewound.

Shami was once more seated next to him, looking at his belt. It happened twice more. On the third time, he stopped her before she even moved. "Go for the knife again, princess, and I'll break your arm".

"Again?" she looked at him puzzled, and then panicked. To show her, he pressed the end of the dagger. Nothing happened. "You've used all the sand," Shami said, a hint of despair creeping into her voice. He looked at her in confusion, and then understanding. "The dagger can rewind time," he said aloud. "For the bearer a chance to undo a moment's action, and no one else knows". Shami nodded, miserably. It all clicked. "The dagger - Tus wanted the dagger. He killed father and framed me for it. He tried to take it from me after the battle. He… I have to show my uncle, it proves I didn't do it!" Hope returned to Dastan for the first time since the king had died. He looked at Shami and thought: that's why you helped me. To get the dagger back. Cunning minx, and to think I almost felt sorry for you.

Shami looked at the ground. "Please, Dastan, you don't understand, the dagger's powers…"

He stopped her. He held the upper hand now, and he was calling the shots. "I'm going to my father's funeral. My uncle will be there. I will show him the dagger, and all will be well."

* * *

><p>Foolish Shami. She had almost been seduced. He was so kind, but it was surly just pity. She made tea as he fed the horse, taking comfort in familiar acts. Good tea does not require a great destiny. He sat close to her and his closeness was intoxicating. Bless the fire, for as she leaned in, light from the flames glinted off the dagger, and she remembered why she was here.<p>

"Go for the knife again, princess, and I'll break your arm"  
>Again? what did he mean? Oh, gods, oh no. She had failed. He pressed the end of the dagger to no avail, and her fears were confirmed. He was delighted, and ready to take the dagger off to show his uncle. She had to stop him. Get the dagger to Tamina. Think!<p>

In a furious whirlwind of thought, Shami's mind lit upon an idea. "And why would your uncle believe you now, you have used up all the sand?"

Dastan looked at her, poured sand from the ground into the hilt, and pressed. Nothing happened.

"It can't be just any sand," Shami informed him, with a smirk.

"This sand, do you have more?" She did, but even Shami knew better than to tell him so. It would be a disaster. He would take the sand and leave her, she knew, at the first opportunity. She was slow, and dragged him down. He had the dagger, and a plan, and unless she thought fast, he would realize as much.

"No," she lied, "but I can get some".

Disaster averted they headed off again, in a direction of Shami's choosing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: **This continues to be a _fan_ fiction, etc.

Dastan had little choice but to follow the path that Shami had chosen. Towards her sister, apparently, although Dastan had less faith than Shami that Tamina would have all the answers. Still, without the sands to fuel the mystical dagger tucked into his belt, he could not plead his innocence to Nizam. His uncle would laugh at such a far-fetched story – a dagger that unwinds time? Even Dastan barely believed it. Alamut truly was a holy city, to possess such a relic. As they walked, Dastan worked to fit the dagger into his understanding of the events of the past few days, beginning with the Persian invasion of Alamut. Tus must have manufactured the evidence of Alamutian treachery – it was the dagger her wanted. It all started to make sense. The man he had taken the knife from, he wasn't part of the battle. He had been trying to ride through the fray, not into it. At the time Dastan had assumed the man was a messenger, sent with a plea for help from Alamutian allies. But it was the dagger, not a message, which was his precious cargo. Princess Tamina had been trying to move it to safety.

When they stopped, he asked Shami to confirm his theory: "Tamina was sending the dagger away, to keep it from us, wasn't she?"

Shami nodded as she made the tea. "I would have smuggled it out the scullery in a pile of carrot peels. So conspicuous, a rider. But Tamina believes that nobility leads to noble deeds. Great warriors complete great tasks."

"And you do not?"  
>Shami shrugged. "In my experience it is the deed that makes a person great, not the reverse. Should a maid be less capable of extraordinary acts than a warrior? Every day, I see kitchen maids work small miracles. Why not a big one?" To Dastan, Shami sounded different as she spoke – sure of herself and her convictions for the first time since he had met her. Was it this - this philosophy of personal courage - that hid behind the steely barrier of her impenetrable eyes?<p>

But then, "It's not Tamina's fault," Shami continued, "I spend a lot more time with the servants than she does. She just doesn't know them."

It was the last straw for Dastan, to see her retreat back into her shell. He wouldn't let her do it. He liked the Shami of small miracles better. "Why do you do that?"  
>"Do what?"<p>

"Defend her. Can't you just have been right? And she wrong? And stop making tea. You're always making tea!"

"I'm good at making tea."

"Shami," Dastan countered with a sigh – he could tell frustration wasn't getting him anywhere - "I'm beginning to think you might be good at a lot of things."

* * *

><p>They continued their march towards sanctuary. Shami was relieved to be on the path towards her sister and safety. She could tell Dastan wasn't happy with the direction she was taking them, but it was the most direct route, and she needed this to be over soon. Dastan kept a hard pace. Shami wasn't going to make it much further. Dastan was relentless, forcing them to push ever father on. Her illness-weakened heart was pounding, her muscles shaking to support her weight, and the fine lacework of scarring across her torso – a relic of her childhood fevers – had turned an angry, throbbing red that chafed against her linen tunic. She stopped moving. "Dastan -" The Persian turned. "Please, can we rest?" Dastan looked around, reading signs on the horizon.<p>

"We are in theives' territory, Shami, we can't stop here. We have to keep moving."

Shami wished that she had some final reserve of strength that would reveal itself at this last, crucial moment, but she didn't. "I can't."

Dastan sighed and, with a few short strides, covered the distance between them. "Up on the horse, then. Keep yourself low to his back, as flat as possible. The less height to be seen from a distance, the better." He hoisted her up, and she tried to hold on, but her exhaustion was complete. The reigns slipped from her hands as she felt herself slipping from the horse. She willed herself to grip, but again, her body paid no mind. Dastan caught her as she fell, semi-conscious, from her mount.

"Sorry" she slurred, and closed her eyes.

As she fell completely out of consciousness, Shami was worried to hear Dastan's unnerving last words. "Damn. We've been seen."

* * *

><p>Maybe he shouldn't have pressed them so hard, Dastan thought, but he hadn't had a choice. He needed her to push on, just a little longer. Out of these open dunes to the shelter of the foothills. Away from these sands, notorious as the roaming ground of dangerous gypsies and thieves. Why was she taking them this way at all? Now here he was, in the open, Shami passed out in his arms. As her head fell backwards, a pendant on a chain around her neck slipped into view. It was a glass vial, filled with – was that sand? She had lied to him then. So much for their growing closeness. The lie would make it easier to abandon her here. As he reached around to slip the necklace from behind her head, Dastan heard riders approaching. "Damn. He said aloud, we've been seen."<p>

Thieves, no doubt. He dragged Shami behind the horse to conceal her – no point complicating the confrontation with her presence. Besides, in a real corner, she might come in handy as a bargaining chip.

Dastan turned with his back to his horse, and crouched in a fighting stance, knife in one hand, sword in the other, in readiness for whatever came next. A knife flew past, the flat of it striking his right hand with such force that he dropped his blade. Before he could react, he found his other hand empty, and he was surrounded by five men on horseback. He bent to retrieve a weapon.

"I wouldn't try, if I were you," the leader of the group, a slightly disheveled looking middle-aged gypsy warned. This is Seso," he said, gesturing to an African – a giant of a man – mounted on an equally giant horse next to him. His skill with the throwing knife is unparalleled. He would kill you before your fingers reached the hilt.

Dastan looked at the African. Motionless and silent atop his mount, the man was enormous, a chest as broad as a barrel and hands that could palm watermelons. "I believe you," he said, raising his empty palms in a gesture of submission. "I am trespassing on your territory. Perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement?"

Grateful he had thought to conceal his reluctant companion until the right moment, he nudged his horse aside, and revealed her unconscious form. "This woman, for safe passage?" Bands of gypsies in this area were often short of women to cook and clean and keep the camps, he had heard. Known to snatch local girls on occasion to bolster their ranks, perhaps he could trade for safe passage. If he found the prospect of handing Shami to these strange men unsettling, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had heard that the women were treated well, and never sold as slaves. In his desperation to prove his innocence to his uncle Nizam, to restore his name, he would try almost anything. He would come back, he told himself, with a cohort of Persia's finest troops and rescue her, once his position had been restored. "I ask only for the trinket around her neck. I gave it as a sign of affection, but she proved faithless." He held his breath and hoped it worked. His charm and a well-told lie had gotten him out of more trouble than this before.

The leader dropped from his horse, under cover from his mounted companions, and approached the girl. To inspect her fitness, Dastan thought. He hoped they wouldn't look too closely. Shami was no workhorse, he knew. Just as the gypsy bent forward to look at her face, Shami's eyes fluttered open. Focusing on the face before her, her eyes widened, and groggily she muttered "Sheik Amar?"

"Shams? What are you doing out here, sweetheart?"

Of the many scenarios that had run through Dastan's head, the one playing out before him now had never occurred to him, in any variation. Shami knew these men? These thieves were on terms of endearment with the younger princess of Alamut? And he had tried to sell her to them. Hells.

Dastan became aware of a shift in the mood, from a tense but genial opportunism to outright hostility. "Now, I'm sure we can discuss this like civilized men…" he began, trying to backpedal as fast as he could manage. Not that he had much hope of success. Every man there had a blade drawn and trained on him. Dastan prepared to die. When from behind him, a reprieve.

"Sessy" Shami began, addressing the African, who had dismounted and joined their tense little conference (Sessy? Dastan thought. Wild and dangerous men, all, and she called the most deadly among them Sessy?) "What's going on?" She stretched out her arms to him, and the African lifted her gently into his arms, her tiny body dwarfed by his enormity. He still didn't speak.

"Shh, sunny" the one she called Sheik Amar soothed "we've got you now, Shams. It's going to be ok."  
>The African (Seso, Dastan thought. "Sessy" would probably get him killed) shifted Shami's weight to one side and drew his blade. Great, Dastan thought. He doesn't even have to put her down to kill me.<p>

Shami came to his rescue again. Still not fully conscious, and obviously exhausted, she became agitated, clawing at the savior's arm. "No, Sessy. Please. No killing. He's with me." Seso looked skeptical, but relaxed his grip on the knife. Amazing - this monster of a man, brought to heel by a woman a fraction of his size. Dastan realized, not for the first time, that there was more to Shami than met the eye. His hands were drawn back and roughly tied behind him, but Dastan, in shock and relieved to be breathing still, gave no resistance.

Dastan was bundled along towards the gypsy camp, in an oasis not far away, Seso ahead of him carrying Shami in his arms, and another of the gypsy retinue behind, leading his horse. Next to him walked Sheik Amar, the only one of the thieves so far to speak. The man liked to talk. Dastan assumed he was the leader of the band, and addressed him as such. Dastan continued to backpedal, furiously "Look, I didn't mean to… If it seemed like I was… I would never… Shami…" Omar silenced him with a gesture.

"I think we had better wait until she wakes and get the story from her, don't you, young man?" Sheik Amar said. Dastan nodded and Amar continued, "I can see what you're thinking. How did our sweet little princess of Alamut come to know a disreputable and dangerous band of acquisitions-based entrepreneurs like ourselves, you are wondering?"

Dastan admitted that he was.

"She was ill, as a child." Again Dastan nodded, he knew that already.

"The palace doctors were helpless. A call was put out - a reward would be paid to any who could cure her. Well, naturally the word 'reward' caught our attention, and as it so happens, the combination of Seso's knowledge of African medicine, and my extensive knowledge of gypsy herb lore make an excellent healing combination, so we thought we'd have a crack at it."

"And her parents let you anywhere near her?" Dastan marvelled. He looked around at the surly, menacing band that surrounded him. He wasn't sure he would let them near a favorite dog, let alone a child.

"Oh the king and queen had little to do with it. They set the reward – felt it was their duty, no doubt - but left the palace staff to it after that. Tamina, their older daughter? Bit of a wunderkind. They were busy with her. Don't get me wrong, I don't think they meant to hurt Shami – it was more like benign neglect. When you believe one of your children is the sole guardian of one of the world's most powerful relics, well, there isn't much time for anything else, is there?" Sheik Amar nudged Dastan in the ribs with an elbow to make his point. A little more forcefully than was necessary, Dastan thought, as he winced helplessly. The Sheik continued, "By the time we got there, everyone else had given up anyway, so they let us have a shot. We almost lost her a few times, too. But it all worked out, and well, we felt sorry for the little mite, so we make sure to stop in from time to time. The wee tot grew up well, too. She always makes sure to leave the room long enough for us to pilfer some of the palace silver. Does the old heart good."

With that, Sheik Amar stopped short, and Dastan realized that they had reached their destination; a cleverly concealed encampment nestled in a small oasis. The thieves scattered to their work, and only Amar and Seso, Shami gathered easily in his arms, remained with Dastan.

The African spoke in a deep rumble "She's overwrought, Amar. I'll draw an herb bath" With that he set Shami down against a palm tree with care, as though she were made of glass, cast Dastan a glance that could wither an entire forest, and headed off to make his medicinal preparations.

"Right you are, my man. Right you are." Amar turned to Dastan and pulled his knife. Dastan braced to run, figuring his luck was up, but the sheik used the knife to slash his bonds, and Dastan's hands were free. As he rubbed his wrists Amar warned "I wouldn't run. And helping me would be a good start towards proving that you weren't intending to harm our little Shams." Amar's demeanor changed as he looked Dastan straight in the eye, and held his gaze there for an unnerving length of time. All chattiness and levity left him. With a seriousness bordering on mystic, his gaze never wavering from Dastan's face he said "Gypsies read people well. That's why we are known as fortunetellers and mystics. I hope you are the man you appear to be – for your own sake, and for Shami's. Now help me get her out of these things and into the bath."

Somewhat awkwardly, Dastan found himself holding Shami as Amar removed her outer tunic, revealing simple white undergarments. He worried briefly that Amar planned to removed these as well, but mercifully for all invloved, the sheik left Shami's modesty intact. Dastan found himself idly tracing the lines of her scars, running a finger lightly across her torso as he marveled at the plainness of her underthings. All of the women he had encountered before sported rather more intricate lace attire, but then, almost all of them had made a career out of undressing. He hadn't realized how alluring white linen could be until now. Seso returned – a healing bath ready, and he lifted Shami gently into it. Dastan stayed by her side as the others went about their business. He needed to be the first to speak with her when she came to her senses. After all, his fate now rested on her word, and he wasn't sure which way it would go. He'd have to do some pretty fast talking on the whole selling her to gypsies affair, even if they had turned out to be old friends.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note**: Thanks to those of you who have reviewed, I appreciate it! Apparently twelve of you have suffered all the way through the first three chapters so far. Now that's what I call persistence - well done, team. Still a _fan _fic.

Shami woke enveloped by warmth. She was in a sweet-smelling bath. It was heavenly. For the first time in days, nothing ached. She had only had a bath this soothing once before, as a child. She hadn't been dreaming, then. The sheik and Seso really had found her – it was indescribable luck. Perhaps, Shami thought, the first thing to go right for her since that fateful day when the Persians had invaded Alamut

Dastan was next to her, gazing into the middle distance, deep in thought. Shami rested her head against the rim of Seso's makeshift tub - a folding basin lined with pitch – and surveyed his features. He was yet to realize that she was awake, and she reveled in the opportunity to explore his physique in peace. He sat with his knees gathered to his chest, an arm casually resting across his legs, two swords - as ever - crossed at his back. His whole body was like that of a restive tiger, ready to pounce. He was covered in the dust and grime of travel, and Shami wondered if he, too, was weary of their adventure. She looked to his face to answer her own question, and did indeed detect tiredness there, mixed with anxiety and confusion. Before she could probe further, he felt her gaze upon him and snapped from his trance, looking straight at her with his own evaluating eye. Shami was suddenly acutely aware of her current state of undress. Gods! He had seen her scars! It was mortifying. She sat up quickly scrunching her knees to her chin to conceal the worst of it.

Her movement and the accompanying splash brought him fully to the here and now, and he said, "Shami, I -"

"Towel!" she interrupted him. He cast his eyes around and found one nearby, and handed it to her, mercifully turning the other way as she emerged from the tub of herb-steeped water. Shami wrapped herself in the soft robe Amar had left there for her. "Ok" she signaled to Dastan that he could turn around, and he did.

"Shami, I was backed into a corner, I…"

"What?" Shami was confused. What had she missed in the stupor of her exhaustion? Ah, here came the sheik, he would explain.

"Sheik Amar!" she cried out, and hugged the man she knew to be the unlikeliest of father figures.

"Shams, love, welcome back to the land of the living. I think there is some explaining to be done. There are a lot of people looking for you, sunny, and your young man here bears a remarkable resemblance to the disgraced son of the king, on the run after killing his father. We need to talk. Alone." The sheik said pointedly, looking at Dastan. Together with Seso, Shami and Amar arranged themselves around the fire, Shami curled up reassuringly in the crook of Seso's solid arm, as Dastan paced anxiously in the background. For a moment, Shami allowed herself to relax into the comfort of Seso's silent immovability. In the shifting sands that had enveloped her life, the African was a rock and an anchor.

"Now, lets get down to business" Amar began. "Tamina was through here before you, on her way to the sanctuary. She said to keep an eye out for you and the prince over there."

Shami nodded. She could tell these men everything, and she trusted them as no others. "He has the dagger. I need to get it to Tamina. He knows what it is, but I convinced him he has to take it to the sanctuary to get more sand" Shami said, proud of her clever lie.

"He's run you into the ground with the pace he's set," Amar noted.

"He had no choice, Amar. His brothers are after us for the king's murder. He says he was set up, and I think that I believe him. He – I don't know, he seems so kind, sometimes, in little ways. It's him who has kept me going this long. I don't know, he's proud and selfish and unthinking, but then, I think he is a good man, really." Shami blushed at the admission, spoken aloud for the first time.

"You like him?" Amar said, as much a statement of fact as a question. Shami nodded, and the sheik sighed. Why wasn't he happy for her, Shami wondered? Had he pressed Dastan, too, on his feelings? She sat anxiously, waiting for Amar's next words.

"Then we will spare him. But Shami" The sheik stopped, and looked pained. Shami braced herself for his words. "When we found you, he offered you in exchange for his freedom".

Shami's heart sank. Foolish girl. She had thought he might really like her, that they had grown closer on their perilous travels together. But of course not – he stayed with her because he needed the sands to work the dagger. Why else would he stay, when she was a burden in every way? And then she had fainted just when they should have fled. And now he had seen her scars. Of course he was just using her for the dagger. Shami felt claustrophobic, like a weight was crushing in on her. Yet somehow, perhaps out of respect for the fantasy she knew could never be true, she still didn't want him harmed, and she told the sheik as much. And then she told him her plan.

* * *

><p>Stupid. It had been stupid to barter with her life. What had he been thinking? These men could have been anyone. He deserved what he got, Dastan convinced himself, pacing back and forth as Shami spoke with Amar and Seso, huddled around the fire. Shami leaned into Seso as she spoke, and Dastan found that he was increasingly agitated by the seating arrangement. Who was this man, to display such casual intimacy with Shami? She would never sit with him like that, now. Not after she learned what he had done – had tried to do. Until the thought came to him, he had not realized that he wanted her to. Now, he couldn't stop thinking about it.<p>

Over dinner, Dastan managed to get close to Shami once more, eager to discover what Amar had told her, and how she had responded. He found her tight-lipped on the subject, although perhaps a note of rigidity and awkwardness had returned to her demeanor with him. He regretted the reversal in their intimacy, but had no desire to push for the contents of her discussion. He was being allowed to eat; it must be a good sign. He accepted from her a cup of tea. She must be feeling better, he mused. She was making tea again.

Reading his mind, Amar called out "She makes wonderful tea. We taught her that."

Shami blushed with pride. Dastan decided that her strange bond with this odd bunch of rascals might be a safer topic than his own recent behavior.

"They seem quite fond of you," he noted.

Shami nodded, and smiled. Dastan's heart leapt at the sight.

"I know it seems odd," Shami said. "I'm not stupid, I know who they are, what they do - for a living, I mean. But they sat with me through the fever as a child, and even if it was for the reward, it was they who were there to hold my hand when the nightmares came. And I think they love me, in their way." Shami shrugged, "They come to Alamut to see _me_, not Tamina. Its nice to feel special sometimes." And then "They're not that bad, really. I don't think they would ever hurt anyone. At least not badly."

Dastan raised an eyebrow at that, remembering Seso's throwing knives. And, having seen them with Shami, he was pretty certain they would kill anyone or anything that came within ten meters of harming her. He told her as much.

She laughed (his heart stopped) and then denied it, but she seemed pleased. "My family was always so busy, I guess, I just adopted them," she laughed again. Dastan had never seen her so at ease. Shami grinned at him then and said, "You and I make strange bedfellows."

"What do you mean?" he asked, intrigued, and thrilled to be paired in her thoughts.

"You, a thief in a family of princes, and me, a princess, with a family of thieves." She was so beautiful in the firelight, Dastan thought, that he couldn't help smiling. Gods, he was going soft. She looked beautiful, sort of fuzzy around the edges. So beautiful. So… His focus was drifting. He looked at his hand, and it seemed to shift under his own gaze. He looked up, and the light from the fire blurred and whirled into bright shapes all around him. Drugged. She had drugged him with that damn tea. The gypsies, he realized too late, had taught her more than he had guessed.

* * *

><p>Shami had to remind herself that he was just after the dagger. She was too soft, too forgiving. He was so handsome in the firelight, and he seemed so interested in her. She drugged him nonetheless, and retrieved the dagger. It was no more than he would have done in her place. Had already tried to do, she reminded herself. Seso brought her a fresh horse, and she hugged him close. Amar, too, said his goodbyes, gave her some food and a supply of salves to sooth her aching body, and sent her on her way. It was exhilarating to be on her own, with the dagger, headed to the sanctuary, still a few days' ride ahead. It was also terrifying, but in the few short days since the events at Alamut that had turned her world upside down, Shami had learned that she was capable of so much more than she could ever have dreamed. For the first time, she believed that this might actually work. Tamina would take the dagger to safety, and the world would be set to rights. Shami could go back to her safe and quiet life. That is what she wanted, wasn't it?<p>

As she made camp that night, Shami realized that the downside to solitary travel was the time it allowed her to think. So many things had changed. She worried that she could no longer be content in the shadows of Tamina's power. And in Dastan, however fraught the circumstances that had thrown them together, she realized that she had learned to appreciate, and even crave the companionship of a man. She knew, though, that just as Dastan could never love her, she was unlikely to find a man who would. She chaffed at the thought of returning to her sister's house, but despaired of ever marrying out of it. With thoughts such as these, she fell into a fitful sleep, and dreamed uneasy dreams.

In the morning, she prepared once more to set out, hopefully for the last time. As she finished clearing her camp, the necklace with the sands of time slipped from her tunic. Perhaps it would be smart, she thought, to refill the dagger – just in case. She stared at the precious stuff, and thought of the trouble it had caused. At least now, her journey was nearly over.

* * *

><p>Dastan awoke to the unsettling sight of Seso, the giant African, staring vigilantly at him from the foot of his bedroll. Dastan was aware that his wrists and feet were bound, and what's more, his whole body had been restrained so that he was unable to move at all. Feigning sleep until he could clear his head and get a firm grip on the situation, Dastan listened and observed his jailer through lidded eyes. After some minutes, Sheik Amar joined the inscrutable Seso, and the two stood, arms crossed, casting a critical gaze across his helpless form.<p>

"She could have done worse," Sheik Amar commented. Seso, as always, remained silent. "He strikes me as a good man, if somewhat foolhardy. In another universe, it might have worked. Oh well. We'll take him down to the Persian outpost and turn him in for the reward in the morning. Shami should be well away by now, but I want to give her a little longer to get the dagger away before Persians begin swarming the area."

Dastan's eyes flew open at that. They had let Shami go? With the dagger? Dastan began to thrash about wildly, trying desperately to break his bonds.

"We've got a live one!" Amar commented.

Dastan had to follow the dagger! It was the only thing that could prove his innocence. Only with the dagger as proof of his story could Dastan bring his brother to justice for murdering their father, and bring this whole nightmare to an end.

"You let Shami go?" Dastan asked again, in despair. It couldn't be true. He needed to stay with the dagger he needed…

"Yes, we did, young man. What of it?"

What of it? thought Dastan. What of it? His life was over, that's what. He had to get to the dagger, he thought, thrashing ever more violently against his bonds. He needed it. How could he make these men understand? Right now, his life, his honor, his loyalty and love of family were all tied to that dagger. Without it, there would be nothing left of him worth having. He opened his mouth to explain, to make his case, make them see. But the words that came out bore no resemblance to the ones he had formed in his head: "I have to get to her!" he shouted "She's alone, with the Persians after her. She'll die! She needs my help, or she'll die! Please!" The force of the sentiment surprised even Dastan. He was confused. Why was he talking about Shami, when the dagger was his goal? He was opening his mouth to try again, when he closed it again abruptly. Sheik Amar and Seso were exchanging a look, and Dastan sensed a change in the mood. He ceased struggling and stared intently at his two captors. Maybe this had been the right tack to take after all – he congratulated his mouth for speaking without permission. Dastan tried to control his breathing, heavy from fighting his bonds, as Seso moved swiftly to kneel above him, one knee resting crushingly on his chest. Without a word, the giant African cut through the rags holding Dastan's arms and legs, and the ropes that kept him pinned to the ground. Seso stood back, and Dastan leapt to his feet, casting his eyes wildly for a horse. One caught his eye and he rushed to mount the beast. He looked around at his captor-turned-liberator to find Seso pointing into the desert. Dastan raced off in the direction indicated, no doubt in his mind that it was the direction that Shami had taken. How far behind her was he? He had no idea how long he had been out, but he was a strong rider, and she required frequent rest. If he rode hard, he hoped, he could catch her by first light.

* * *

><p>Amar and Seso stood, staring of into the dusk, watching Dastan gallop into the darkening horizon.<p>

"Now what did you go and do that for?" Amar asked his old friend.

"He loves her" Seso replied. "He just doesn't know it yet."

"Well, I know that" Amar said with a sigh, "but I was looking forward to the reward money."

Seso did not reply, but eyed his old friend critically. He snorted, and walked away to attend to their rapidly dwindling supply of horses.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: **_Chapters will be coming more slowly now, as I have to write as well as revise from here on out. Apologies, as this chapter is primarily to move the plot along. There will be romance in the next chapter, I promise. Still a fan fiction, etc._

Shami was alone in the desert and preparing for the final push to the sanctuary. For her own safety she thought, she had better refill the dagger. She took the pendant, full of sacred sands, from around her neck, and was about to pour the precious contents of the vial into the dagger. Suddenly, a horseman crested the dune behind which she was sheltered and covered the distance to her in an instant. Without dismounting, the rider, cloaked against the desert sands, leaned from his saddle, reached out with his sword and lifted the small glass vial from her trembling hands. Shami whirled around to face her attacker, dagger in hand, and the rider took the opportunity to take that from her as well. Shami was consumed by panic. She was so close – against all odds – to completing her mission and returning the dagger to her sister, and now she was about to be killed by a thief in the desert. Her attacker dismounted with an easy swagger, and unwrapped the scarves covering his face. Shami was confronted by Dastan's grinning visage, and the rising tide of fear that had swelled up inside her turned immediately to anger. Here he was, again, this infuriating man she could not seem to lose. Dastan, who seemed so tender and kind, and yet had been willing to sell her to thieves to get his prize. Frustration mixed in with her anger - here was Dastan, blocking her progress, confirming her status as the family failure. She hated him. She hated the part of herself that was glad to see him even more. The tumultuous mix of emotions ripped through Shami like a wave. She was tired. She ached. Her own family lacked faith in her, and she had agreed with them, had tucked herself in a corner for her entire life. But then she fate had thrown her in with this man, and she had learned to trust in her own strength. And then he had taken it away. It had been a lie, a dream, and he was here to take it from her once more. She would not – could not - let him do that. For the first time in her life, Shami was determined to stand her ground.

"How did you get away from Sheik Omar?" she asked, accusingly.

"After you drugged me, you mean?" he countered.

Shami blushed, but she would not be ashamed. "You tried to sell me!"

This time the color began to rise in Dastan's cheeks. He looked down at his feet and ran his fingers through his hair nervously. He rubbed at the roguish stubble that had begun to accumulate on his unshaven chin. "I would have come back for you – It was - - I was - I'm sorry" he finally managed, looking back into her eyes, his gaze no longer flinching. "Please forgive me. You have to understand. I need to clear my name. I have to prove I didn't kill my father, and for that I need to take the dagger to Nizam. I would do anything to make that happen, but I'm sorry that I hurt you in the process. I am. But," he continued, the lightness returning to his voice, " I can do that now" he finished, brandishing his prize. "I will go to Avrat, to my father's funeral. Nizam will be there, and everything will will be restored to rights."

"Dastan, please" Shami began, "you don't understand. The dagger's power…" her voice trailed off. It was too dangerous to show the dagger to anyone. How could she make him understand that she needed to take it to Tamina now? She didn't trust him (how could she?) enough to tell him the full power of the dagger, but she couldn't let him take it from her, either. "If the dagger fell into the wrong hands, the disaster that would befall mankind is unimaginable. The gods will punish…"

"Your gods, not mine," Dastan interrupted. "Don't worry, Shami," he said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "I will take care of your knife."

Shami gave up. She couldn't overpower Dastan, and she wasn't clever enough to trick him out of the dagger. She wished for the thousandth time that Tamina were here instead of her. She sighed. At the very least, she needed to go to Avrat with him, to stay near the dagger. "I'm coming with you." She tried to sound forceful – like it was an incontrovertible truth, not a desperate request.

"Of course you are." Shami exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding as Dastan continued, "I need you to help smuggle me in to Avrat. All of those dignitaries arriving to honor my father. I'm guessing you've prepared a state dinner for at least a few. Anyone owe you a favor?"

* * *

><p>Shami had, indeed, known several of the high-ranking rulers on their way to the king's funeral – or at least, their minders. Dastan stood by as she made arrangements with the chief of staff for the Mughal of the Hindu Kush. She and Dastan would pose as members of the Mughal's retinue until safely inside the walls of the city. Once again, Dastan had been surprised by Shami, and he had watched in wonder as she negotiated with the chamberlain. By the end of the conversation, she had convinced the man that the whole affair had been his own idea, and that it was Shami who was doing him a favor, rather than the other way around. It had been a masterclass in diplomacy. She was brilliant, he thought, amazing in every way. Except, perhaps, that the only available post that she and the chamberlain had been able to find for Dastan had been carrying the litter on which sat the Mughal himself – under whose abundant weight he now struggled. Shami had apologized to him when breaking the news of his disguise, but, watching her now as she walked at his side carrying nothing heavier than a basket of walnuts, Dastan began to wonder if his post, too, had been a conscious element of her negotiations. Dastan found himself lost in thought as he watched her. He couldn't believe his luck – first that Amar and the African had let him go, and then that he had found Shami and the dagger so quickly. He had the dagger, and the sand to fuel it – his redemption was within his grasp. Despite the crushing weight on his shoulders, Dastan was optimistic for the first time in days. He knew that life would never be the same. His father was dead, and Tus a traitor. But at least after tomorrow, he would no longer be a fugitive.<p>

They entered the city easily, and without drawing the attention of any of the ranks of Persian guards standing at attention around the gates of Avrat. Within the walls of the city security was considerably more lax, all official attention focused on the arrangements for the royal funeral. With a grateful farewell to the Kushite chamberlain, Dastan and Shami parted company with the Mughal's retinue, melting away into the throngs of mourners crowding the streets. Dastan spared a moment from his own mission to appreciate the number of ordinary Persians who had turned out to pay their respects to his father. He had been, Dastan thought with pride and sorrow, a good man and a great king. Dastan was gratified to realize that he did not mourn alone. From their rooftop vantage, he and Shami watched the funeral procession, his father's body concealed within a black draped coach, followed by his uncle Nizam, and his brother, Garsiv. But where was Tus? All of Persia mourned, but Tus could not be bothered to attend his own father's burial?

Outraged, Dastan turned to Shami and whispered furiously, "Tus remains in Alamut. The sands that fuel the dagger – there are more there as well, aren't there? That's what he is looking for."

Shami nodded, almost imperceptibly, miserable to have betrayed another of the dagger's secrets to him. It was time for Dastan to bring an end to this torturous odyssey – for both of their sakes. "I must get a message to my uncle," he announced.

"Dastan," Shami gasped, "that's impossible."

Dastan grinned – he was in his element now – and leapt to the adjoining roof. Launching himself from chimney to rafter, from balcony to awning and back, Dastan was flooded with the joy of true freedom. He was at one with the city and its buildings, his muscular arms and clever hands pulling him through the landscape as though it were a child's play-scape. Were remaining undetected not paramount, he would have laughed out loud. Finally Dastan dropped behind the royal coach carrying his father's body, and drew himself inside.

He was alone with his noble father at last. Grief overwhelmed him as he looked upon the golden funeral mask covering the stiffened corpse. Dastan regretted his inability to mourn his parent properly, and cursed his brother Tus for taking that opportunity from him. Hastily snatching a burning cedar twig from the pile of incense concealing the smell of death, Dastan scratched out a short message to his uncle, and daring to reach a hand out from the safety of the covered coach, slipped it into the pocket of Nizam's cloak. A moment later, he was gone, engaged in the parkour that would take him safely back to the waiting Shami.

* * *

><p>"Difficult, but not impossible," Dastan replied while giving Shami his trademark grin, a move so disarming that she was unable to hold on to her anxiety and annoyance at his recklessness. He was so self-assured, it was hard not to be reassured. But Shami reminded herself of the stakes, and hardened her resolve to protect the dagger. As they made their way through the crowds towards the place Dastan had designated for his meeting with Nizam, she tried to dissuade him one final time.<p>

"Dastan," she asked, "are you sure that you can trust your uncle?"

"Implicitly," he replied with such firmness that Shami feared to ask again. Instead she sighed, and sighted a long, hooded cloak. "Here, at least, conceal yourself" she said, and wrapped the cloak around his well muscled body. He did not protest, and as Shami drew her hands around his waist to fasten the garment, she felt the hilt of the dagger protruding from his waistband! With a sleight of hand learned from Amar, Shami replaced the dagger with a nutcracker inadvertently taken from the Kushite retinue, willing herself not to tremble, pretending that nothing had happened.

Dastan stopped outside of a small hovel, no different than any of the other modest dwellings found in this area of the city. "This is it," he said, and turned to Shami, resting his hands on her shoulders to ensure she was paying him her full attention. She held her breath, hoping he would not realize her deceit. But all he said was "After the meeting, we will take the dagger back to Tamina, I promise. If something goes wrong, meet me in the valley behind the fist of the foothills outside of the city. There is a small oasis there – it was my favorite hiding place as a child, and you will be safe there until I can join you."

With that, he turned and entered the vacant house to meet his uncle, and Shami was once more alone, the dagger safely tucked into the folds of her tunic. She did not wait for Nizam to appear, but turned and walked towards the edge of the city as fast as she could, heart pounding. She did not turn around. For if she did she feared that this time, she would not be able to leave him.

* * *

><p>Dastan's nerves jangled with anticipation as he awaited Nizam's arrival. He did not have to wait long, as his uncle, concealed in his own all-encompassing cloak, appeared out of the crowd within minutes.<p>

"You should not have come here, Dastan" his uncle admonished, even as Dastan pulled him into a relieved embrace.

"I had no choice, uncle. I did not kill my father," Dastan blurted out.

"Your actions speak otherwise," Nizam cautiously replied.

"It was Tus," Dastan explained, "Tus gave me the cloak – he must have poisoned it." In his eagerness to explain, Dastan took no notice of his uncle's demeanor, which, upon reflection, he would realize was suspiciously reserved.

"Why would Tus do such a thing?"

"There are no forges in Alamut," Dastan explained, "But there is a weapon. A mystical dagger with wonderous powers, uncle. This device allows the bearer to rewind a moment of time. With it Tus could be the most powerful ruler Persia has ever seen."

"This dagger," Nizam asked casually, but with a hint of - was it eagerness? - in his voice, "you have it with you?"

Dastan nodded, and pulled a wrapped bundle from the small of his back, handing the parcel to Nizam, who unwrapped it hurredly. Once uncovered, however, the bundle revealed not a dagger, but a nutcracker.

"Is this some sort of joke, Dastan?" Nizam accused, brandishing the useless metal device.

Dastan looked around for Shami in desperation, but she, and the dagger, were gone. As he looked back to Nizam in panic, his mind racing for an explanation, he spied blistered scars on his uncle's hands as they grasped the nutcracker. "Your hands are burnt," Dastan said, confusion giving way to horrified understanding. He had been a fool to trust his uncle. He backed away, but his back hit the wall, Nizam was standing in the only doorway.

"Everything all right Dastan?" Nizam asked.

"Yes," Dastan stalled for time, looking for an escape from his murderous uncle, whose hands stood out to Dastan now as gruesome proof of his treachery. It had been Nizam, not Tus, who had killed the king. "My father loved you" he could not help but accuse, in tones of disbelief. "He loved you."

"And I loved him, Dastan" Nizam countered, but with what Dastan now realized was a disingenuous tone. "Come, Dastan, you must calm down. This can all be sorted out, I'm sure." And with that, Nizam gave an almost imperceptible signal with his hand, and an arrow came flying through the roof and landed with a thud at Dastan's feet.

Still in shock, Dastan looked up in time to see the second arrow come at him with more accuracy, and land with a thud in his left shoulder. He did not tarry after that, turning to flee out the window as what felt like a legion of Persian soldiers bore down upon him.

"Dastan, wait!" he uncle shouted halfheartedly, but Dastan was well gone by then, tearing desperately though the streets, blood streaming from his shoulder, the soldiers in hot pursuit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:** _A huge thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. I really appreciate it! Here is the next chapter – it's a short-ish one, but I figured it was better than making everyone wait for me to finish a long one. I anticipate three or four more chapters after this one. Fan fic, etc, etc…._

Shami had no idea why she had stopped here. To be sure, she had to stop somewhere. The darkening skies forewarned of a sandstorm, and Shami knew better than to be without shelter when it arrived. But why _here_, in this oasis tucked into the foothills outside of Avrat? The very oasis where Dastan had told her to wait should something go awry. Well, something had gone awry for Dastan, but it had been Shami's doing, and she struggled to envision a scenario in which he would be glad to see her. She had stolen the dagger from him once more, and now he would confront his uncle without his precious proof. Surely, she told herself, if Nizam loved him as well as Dastan claimed, he would believe his nephew even without the dagger to bolster his claims. In which case, Dastan would have no need to find her in the desert, having been drawn once more into the bosom of his family. More likely, Nizam would not believe. Shami prayed that Dastan would not be imprisoned or killed on account of her actions. But she also feared his escape, and the wrath he would inevitably pour out upon her for her deceit. So why was she waiting here, for him to find? It was foolish, but an anxious glance at the horizon, and Shami knew that it was too late for her to flee. All she could do was clumsily erect her makeshift tent, take shelter, and wait.

Shami stood in the mouth of her tent, watching the storm roll in. The winds were already picking up, and a wisp of hair blew across her face. As she brushed it aside, she noticed small figure in the distance, picked out against the massive wall of sand. It was a horse and rider, coming toward her quickly. Even from a distance, Shami could tell that something was wrong. The rider was slumped over in the saddle, clutching at his mount's mane to steady himself. Oh gods, it was Dastan, and he was injured! What had she done? The horse cantered up to the clearing in which she stood, and Dastan, blood trickling in sickly rivulets from a wound in his shoulder, tried to dismount. Without the use of his injured arm, cradled to his chest, he lost his balance, and fell gracelessly from the horse in an ungainly heap.

Shami ran to him then, kneeling at his side. She grasped him by the shoulders, rolling his body so that she could rest his head and torso on her lap. "Oh, Dastan," Shami said tenderly, through quiet tears, "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. If I had just trusted you with the dagger…"

"No, Shami," Dastan rasped weakly, raising his good hand up to brush the tears from her face. "You were right. You were right to take the dagger. It was Nizam, not Tus. Nizam killed my father. It was a trap. I was wrong."

Dastan's breathing was labored, and up close, Shami was aware that the large wound on his shoulder was joined by many smaller cuts and bruises all over his body. With the first grains of sand from the encroaching storm beginning to scour her face, Shami knew that she had to get Dastan inside quickly. She struggled to help him get his feet underneath himself, arranging herself underneath his good arm. Clutching at his chest to steady him, she allowed Dastan to lean most of his weight on her as she maneuvered his stumbling body into the tent, grasping the reigns of his horse with her other hand. Even those few feet were a struggle – Dastan had lost a considerable amount of blood, and he was too heavy for Shami's frail frame to support. They both collapsed in a panting heap inside of the tent. She saw that the horse settled himself in the lee of some rocks, his body protected from the worst of the storm, with his head inside the tent itself.

It took Shami several minutes to recover sufficiently to evaluate the situation. Dastan's breathing was shallow, but steady. He appeared to have lost consciousness for now, for which Shami was grateful. It allowed her to pull of his shirt and evaluate his wounds without worrying too much about causing him any more pain. With a damp rag she washed the blood and grit from his torso, probing his flesh with her own small hands. She was relieved to discover that most of the wounds were superficial, and already beginning to scab over. The shoulder wound was bad. He had obviously been shot with an arrow, and pulled it out himself. His angle had been bad, though, and the point had done as much damage coming out as it had going in. Thank the gods, she still had the medicinal supplies that Amar and Seso had prepared for her. A childhood of necessity spent in the company of healers came to her aid now, and Shami cleaned and bandaged the wound well, tying strips of cloth from her tunic around his shoulder as tight as her trembling fingers would allow. As she worked, she spoke soothingly to Dastan, apologizing once more for leaving him in the lurch back in Avrat. Taking care of him now was the least she could do, she thought.

Her ministrations finished, Shami made Dastan as comfortable as she could, draping him with a rough woolen travel blanket she found in a satchel hanging from his saddle. She stood to leave him to rest in peace when he thrust out a hand and grasped her arm, drawing her back. "Please, stay" he murmured, and held tight to her arm, pulling her down to lie next to him. She lay still and stiff, unsure how to react. His breathing slowed and his eyes closed, asleep, yet he held tight to Shami, clasping her hand in his own. Awkwardly she lay face to face with her patient, unsure how to react. She stared into his face, handsome and chiseled and now so close to her own, but could discern nothing there but a deep and healing slumber. She was keenly aware of his naked chest, rising and falling more gently now, and prayed that he would let her go soon. But his grip remained firm, even in sleep, and gradually she relaxed into the warmth of his bare, muscled torso, draped the blanket so that it covered her own shoulders as well as his, and drifted into her own dreams to the sound of the sands blowing relentlessly across the face of the canvass tent.

* * *

><p>Dastan woke the next morning to the gentle sensation of Shami's breath feathering across his chest. Her breathing was the only sound in the preternatural quite that followed last night's storm. The crown of her head rested just below his chin, and he gently untangled his hand from hers, remembering how he had clasped it so tightly the night before. Propping himself up on his the elbow of his good arm, he looked down at his sleeping savior. How beautiful she was, so fragile and insecure, yet with an inner courage like an iron rod burning at her core. Dastan wished that she could see herself as he had learned to. Teasing out a lock of her hair, he let it slip tenderly through his fingers as he remarked on his luck. He had barely managed to escape Nizam's goons, losing them in the chaos as Avrat prepared for the storm. Too weak to make a coherent plan, he had pointed his horse towards the oasis, and prayed. Thank the gods Shami had been waiting for him there, for his strength would not have held out much longer. She was a good nurse, too, he mused, looking at the neat dressing that now adorned one shoulder. Yet another hidden talent. He flexed the arm experimentally, and winced.<p>

Shami woke with a start at his unexpected movement. She looked at him in the confusion that accompanies the first few moments of wakefulness.

"Good morning sunshine," Dastan greeted her gently. He watched as his presence, and their current sleeping arrangement, registered in her eyes. She sat up abruptly, drawing her knees to her chin and facing him. "Oh, Dastan!" she murmured into her knees, "Thank the gods, you're all right. I was so worried last night, you were hurt so badly! And it's all my fault."

"Why?" Dastan asked, "Did you order those archers to kill me in Avrat?"

Shami furrowed her brow "No, but…"

"Then it was not your fault," Dastan assured her. "Nizam deserves all the blame there. He betrayed my father, and he has betrayed me, and it's a good thing that you reaved the dagger from me, or Nizam would have it now. But," Dastan continued, shifting his weight from elbow to hand as he came to a seated position, "there is one thing I don't understand. What good does a moment of time do my uncle? None. What aren't you telling me, princess? No more secrets, Shami, no more lies."

* * *

><p>Shami took a moment to compose her story before beginning. She regretted sitting up so quickly, as she mourned the loss of Dastan's solid warmth beside her. In his absence the very air around her felt harsh and unwelcoming. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to tell him everything – there was no hiding from him now.<p>

"Within the walls of Alamut lies the beating heart of all life on Earth," she began, " - the sand-glass of the gods themselves." He sat quietly as she explained that in despair at man's cruelty the gods had once sought to wipe their creation from the earth with a mighty storm. That the prayers of one small girl had saved humanity from obliteration, her goodness convincing the gods to sweep the sands of their wrath into a glass, and making this girl its guardian, giving her a dagger that could pierce the glass and access the sands of time itself, filling the hilt with a minute's worth of time. Her sister, Tamina, was the latest guardian in this long line, the Dagger of Time her sacred trust.

Dastan interrupted her to ask what would happen if the hilt of the dagger was kept open as the dagger pierced the sand-glass?

"Time would flow through endlessly," Shami replied.

Dastan nodded. "That is my uncle's plan," he mused. "When Nizam and my father were children, they hunted together often. One day, Nizam saved my father from a lioness. It was my father's favorite story. Nizam wishes to go back and undo his deeds, to let my father die. Then he would be king for a lifetime, and my brothers never born."

Shami looked at Dastan in horror. "Dastan, he must not! The glass would shatter, releasing the wrath of the gods once more. Life on Earth would be wiped out, and this time there would be no stopping it. Only Tamina can protect the dagger. She awaits me at a sanctuary in the foothills of the Alamkuh Mountains. Please, give me the dagger, so that I may take it to her."

"No, Shami, I can't do that."

Shami's heart sank. She had been sure, after the intimacy of the night before, that he would understand. She thought that she had felt a strengthening of the bond between them, now. Had she been so wrong, once again? She knew so little of men. But then he reached out to cup her face in one hand and continued, "I'm coming with you."

"You're going to help me?" Shami asked, hope and disbelief warring for supremacy in her mind and in her voice, her heart leaping in her throat.

He nodded and smiled his silent reply, and Shami realized that she had never truly experienced joy until that very moment.


End file.
